Love is born as the day over the floods, rising in tides of light,
Quenching glitter of stars, gloom of the woods, flowing into the night.
Out of delicate dreams, out of a sleep, Love awakens, his eyes
Filled with marvellous light as from the deep wells in the wakened skies.
Glad is he of the earth, glad of the gems morning strews on the lawn,
Trembling on every flower bright diadems: Love, Love too is a dawn!
Ah! but not with a peace, not with a light, cometh he always down
Like a swallow in swift beautiful flight! Nay, as swimmers who drown
Those who strive with his strength: even as fire fallen out of the skies,
Even as lightning hurled, so his desire, bright, and blending the eyes.
Glittering through the storm cometh he then, rending all in his path,
Thus the implacable lord, master of men, smites his foes in his wrath.
KORE
TO MRS. W. N. MACMILLAN
Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed, with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.
With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;
While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.
STILL LIFE
Pale globes of fragrant ripeness, amber grapes
And purple, on a silver dish; a glass
Of wine, in which light glows, and fires to pass
Staining the damask, and in dance escapes;
Two Venice goblets wrought in graceful shapes;
A bowl of velvet pansies, wherein mass
Blues, mauves, and purples; plumes of meadow-grass;
And one ripe pomegranate, that splits and gapes,
Protruding ruby seeds: a feast for eyes
Better than all those topaz, beryl fruits
Aladdin saw and coveted: these call,
To minds contented and in leisure wise,
Visions of blossoming boughs, and mossy roots,
And peaches ripening on a sunny wall.
BLODEUWEDD
Math, upon a summer day,
Gathered blossoms of the May;
Cherry-blossom, too, which fell
On the surface of a well;
Silver froth, and foam of flowers,
Golden rays on drifting showers;
Dew, and frost, and flames of fire,
And he fashioned his desire:
Made a woman, slim and fair,
Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair.
Blodeuwedd of the shining face
Ranged the forest, with the grace
Of a forest-thing, as wild,
Wilful as a wanton child.
How could men withhold their eyes
From her? She was light, the skies,
Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed,
Looking at her, that they dreamed
All the joys of heaven had been
Hidden her twin breasts between,
Bound upon her tranquil brows
That were white as winter snows,
Hidden in her curving lips,
Folded round her flowing hips.
Yea! for them she seemed to shine
With a beauty all divine.
Blodeuwedd of the little ears
Had, alas! no gift of tears,
Had no heart at all to love,
Knew not what deep sorrows move
Through the dim ways of our heart,
Knew of mortal grief no part.
She, like sunlight through the rain,
Drifted through our world of pain,
Fed her joy with myriad kisses,
Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses;
Then danced on her wanton way
Like a gleam of gold through gray.
Men fell, knowing they would fall,
For Math gave no heart at all.
HELGI OF LITHEND
TO ALFRED FOWLER
What are ye women doing? Get ye hence,
Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die,
Lay me not there among the peaceful graves
Where sleep your puny saints. I would go hence,
Over the loud ways of the sea again,
In my black ship, with all the war-shields out,
Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God,
To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forth
As when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold,
And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine,
And all the splendour and the lust of war.
Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams,
Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs,
Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty walls
Beyond our scaling, that the peaceful folk
May sleep each night securely: white-faced priests,
And convent women, such as wail all day
Before lit candles, in the idle fume
Of incense rising. I would go where sit
Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons,
Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord,
With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods,
And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun,
And Brage, harping. There the heroes are,
Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young men
Who fared with me adventuring, and lie
Now in an alien earth, or derelict drift
Upon the washings of the eternal tides.
But they still live in Asgard, drinking joy
Of battle, and of music, and of love.
Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head,
While the dark hour approaches and the night,
Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein.
I too would go and eat of Idun's apples,
The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youth
Perpetual, and strength of hands renewed;
Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there,
The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are lit
With all love's perilous pleasures. I would ride
Over the glittering Bifrost bridge with Thor
And the great host of heroes; with the wind
Playing upon our banners, and the dawn
Leaping as flame from all the lifted swords,
And press of spears: and some day we shall come
Battering at the crystal walls of Heaven,
With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towers
To be our torches, and make all the streets
Of jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl,
Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saints
Pray back the onslaught of our lusting swords
With any prayers? I would not lie in earth
Under the sheep; but send me once again
Out through the storms, and though I lie there cold,
And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hear
The exultation of the waves, the might
Of Aegir, and the creaking of the helm,
And dream the helm is in mine hands again,
While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing,
Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides,
Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas,
Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough,
With tense and grinding timbers, while the wind
Screams in the cordage and the splitten sail.
Ye have loved women, some of ye, and know
Therefore how I have loved the fickle sea,
Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyes
Of laughing children, wanton as a girl,
And then all hunger for us men, all fierce
Passionate longing, and then gray with rain,
Sullen. A very harlot is the sea,
A thing for men to master, full of moods,
Treacherous, as you see it when it crawls
Snakily over sunken rocks, or slinks
Furtively by, and snarls to show its teeth
Like a starved wolf. Many a goodly man
Women have loved and slain, but more the sea!
Though I forget, they are meeker women here,
Submissive to their master. They are not
The wild things that men warred with in my youth,
Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed doves
Who flutter round our footsteps, croon and coo
Amorous music through the languorous nights,
Low laughter stifled by close kisses shut
Hot on the laughing lips, love being a game
Now of your tamer men-folk with soft speech.
But love to me was no light laughter heard
Under a sickle moon, when blossoming brakes
Thrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushed
Like a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seem
To shut within herself her secret thoughts
Lest men should know them, and be ware of love,
And waken, eager. Eager! Love to me
Pulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seems
So aerial a vision: to have, to hold,
To drink of: and I knew how flesh could bound
Spirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep,
Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thus
With how irreparable loss! All time,
Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouths
In a swift marriage, and the sacred night
Sweet with the song of arrowy desires
Shot from the bow of life into our quick,
And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse,
And then the glory darkened, withered, dead,
With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs,
And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.
Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits,
In the round archway, on her carven chair,
And gazes over the unquiet waves
Toward the horizon's calm, as if there lay
Peace, and the heart's desire, after much pain,
Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there,
She peoples all the blue of sea and skies
With golden hopes of youth, giving them life
From her own yearning, though they are long dead
And havened where dead years are. Such still eyes
She hath; and that strange patience women have
Whose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword,
Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall,
When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth,
And warfare, and seafaring, and the life
Which sang, and went with joyful colours clad,
Became until they were as frail as dreams;
While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fair
Swimming upon tired senses, as there swims
Up from the wreck of day the night's first star
Quickening through the silence. So, in her,
The music and the colour of the world,
The splendours of the earth and sky and sea,
Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.
Her house a shambles; and I, standing there,
A beast all red with slaughter. One white face
Like a white star! Was it not kingly spoil?
What man had not felt hunger in his hands
To flutter over the smooth flesh, and know
The wonder breathing? So even I must grasp
That winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strength
Fierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knew
What God had breathed his fire into my clay.
Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the gold
Mere dross for traffic in the market-place,
Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes now
See her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace,
The golden head upon its silver stalk,
As frail as April's dewy lilies are,
Upon some wakening lawn; or as she lay
With long, smooth, supple thighs and little breasts
Bared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in,
As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyes
Veiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks,
Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sight
To its obscure recesses, while my heart
Filled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joy
Which raced like fire through me, until each sense
Ached, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more,
In plundering such pleasure. But her soul
Fled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled.
She lay there as if dead, and all my love
Was no more to her than the idle strength
Which breaks upon the beaches. I could feel,
Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breath
Came soft, and warm, through the red parted lips,
Fragrant upon my face. That night was filled
With myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews,
All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowed
With secret heat, as if the night were quick
By Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.
So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heart
Went dreaming out over the unquiet sea
To Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son,
Such an one as the hearts of maids desire,
Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a man
Made such a friend or foe, on land or sea
His hands were skilful. I can love such men
In friendship or in fighting. He had come
To Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when Spring
Was white and ruddy in the fields and woods;
And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fire
As day was closing, and had spoken low
In the dim light; and he had sailed in June
Southward for prey, descending toward the Seine
With help from Thrain the White in ships and men.
And I had come in autumn with my swords
For vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's stead
And town a heap of ash, being in wrath:
Though it were shame to burn so tall a town,
As men said; but the heart of me was grieved
For some slight he had put on me, and black
Is a man's anger; so I gave his stead
A prey to the red flames; and fighting died
Thrain, a man's death! But when I throned her here
Men came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd come
For love of her, to take her hence again
And burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said,
Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade,
"Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."
But they all feared him, and again one spoke,
Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town.
Are there not many women in the world
To mate with, but the one he loves?" I struck
The craven fool a damned blow in the face,
Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still.
But one man, riding over a wild moor
When the black night was blacker with a storm
Saw in the play of lightnings from the clouds
Twelve armoured women riding, and they swooped
Eagle-wise on the earth, and riding came
To a lone house; and, spying through a chink,
He saw them weave a scarlet web of war,
With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights,
And they sang at their weaving. In those days
We sowed our corn with axes in our belts,
And each man armoured, and my people went
Fearfully, gazing out with anxious eyes
Over the seas for an unfriendly sail,
While I sat silent, eating mine own heart,
Until one ran with speed to me, as night
Came, dropping silence on the shining sea,
A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!"
Pointing toward the rim of ocean, red
With the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me,
To see their slack sails, idle, in a gore
Of dying glories, while their oars dripped fire,
Labouring up against the ebbing tide.
"They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance,
Lack water." And I set an ambush, there
Where Rangriver turns bitter with the sea,
If thirst should lure them; and they came with skins
To fill; and there we played a little while
With knives and axes, while they ran, and tripped
Over gnarled roots and boulders in the dark,
Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran,
For we would call the names we heard them call
In feigning, and thus lure them from the path.
Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise,
Making the odds more even, and that night
They watched their ships, and lit the beach with fires
So that they might not fight an unseen foe,
Who struck them through the darkness. But I went
Homeward, and to the chamber where she lay
Sleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleep
Had stilled her troubles. As I looked on her,
Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched,
Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing,
Hungering, though I would not break her dreams.
All night I watched her, that mine heart might keep
One face to dream of through the dark of death
If he should slay me. Then a sense of dawn
Stole gradually through the blue, wet air;
Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh!
In the white light she lay there, and I looked
Long on her: and I left her then, and went,
Calling my men, and led them thence afield
To a smooth level sward, for fighting made,
Between the gray bents and the leafy woods,
A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stir
Came from the beached black ships, as April, hears
About the populous hives, when the blown scents
Lure, to their garnering, the frugal bees,
And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shore
Sigurd's well-armoured men: some by the fires
Eating, some buckling on their gleaming arms,
Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shields
Full of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there,
Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb,
With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm,
Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my men
Halted, for vantage of the broken ground,
While I strode out upon the sward, and called
To Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him,
And he came at me, whirling his bright axe.
And I leapt out to meet him, so men say,
Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blow
Broke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone,
But mine axe clove clean through the angry face,
Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back,
He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rang
Loudly; and from both armies came a shout
Crying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!"
One mourning and one joyous, while my men
Stood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength,
And no one feared him now. But they came on
Avenging, and the crashing of their shock
Broke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts,
And screams of dying men were born aloft
With dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled,
Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blue
They fell, but they were lifted dull and red,
While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight,
And fluctuating chance, and those who fell,
Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.
So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed,
Between the gray bents and the broken ground;
And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead,
On whom we stumbled. But at last the night
Came, shadowing with her blue veils the sea,
And we and they drew off; and when the noise
Of war was stilled, and only moans of men
Broke silence, with the laughter of the sea
That curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach,
I hailed them, and they answered me, and sent
Tall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best man
Since Sigurd fell. Over the level sward,
Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of corn
After a reaping, strode he; and the moon
Tipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helm
And burnished shield; but when his eyes and mine
Met, and he knew me, he stood waiting there.
And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to those
White faces staring sightless to the moon
From the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truce
And mourn these dead, for they were goodly men.
My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless now
With Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mourn
In Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heaven
Mourn golden Balder; but his praise shall be
Within the hearts and on the lips of men
A song for ever. Him I hated not,
Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to me
For Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake,
Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heart
Desired with all its strength. So for one prize
Strove we, nor could we yield, but one must die:
Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so!
But let us build a pyre within his ship
Heaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him,
And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea.
And when the dawn of the third day is red,
If your mind is for fighting, we shall fight
Again; or ye shall launch your ships and go
Over the bright ways of the shining sea."
I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing down
Upon the dead, whose armour glimmered there
Under the shining moon, as glimmer pools
Innumerable in the leafless woods:
"Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.
Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's hearts
A snare and peril! What is in one face
That men should die for it? A kitchen slut
To some dull clown is royal. But he lies
There, and I cannot hold mine heart from tears
So loved I him: I count all women light
As flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou,
When we two met amid the ringing blows
And mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him,
Impatient, for my wound was cold and irked
My shoulder: "Go, and boast among the ships
That Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once.
I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake."
And he, astonied, stood there, as if light
Fell on remembered places in his heart:
"Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from him
In one long sigh; and he drew in his breath
Quickly, remembering his brother's stead
Above the land-locked bays; and his heart saw
His mother bend down over the bright hearth,
With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise,
Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood,
Forgetting war and death; and when he spoke
Again, his voice was changed, and soft in speech,
While we went down toward the twinkling fires
That lit the shore, and set a watch with brands
To scare the wolves, who barked within the woods,
Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came,
Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house,
While they abode there. And when dawn was red
Upon the third day, launching their black ships,
They went upon the bright ways of the sea.
Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light
Under the milky skies; all liquid gold
The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows
And whitening in their wake; as I watched them
I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart,
Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time.
With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy,
Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas,
Adventuring. A lure there is for us
In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands.
A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love!
She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched
One burning ship drift over the sea's rim
Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed,
Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine!
The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts,
Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth,
Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch
Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed
God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought
Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light;
And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame
And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine!
All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me,
Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight
Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone
Over blue windless seas, bare of all life,
And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn
Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss
Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs,
That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky
And tranquil waters. I had all of her
But some few drops of joy she yielded not,
They being hers to give or keep, a dew
Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her!
I think no love is peace, and we but break
Against each other; and our hands are vain
To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense
Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith,
We go alone through all our days, alone
Even when all is given! But him she loved;
And dreamed upon his face, remembering.
Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad
I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy,
The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream
Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things,
And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools
Who deem the better love is a bowed heart
And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close,
Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast,
Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse
Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close
More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes,
Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win?
Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled
Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead:
A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea,
Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life,
Having not strength enough to lift mine axe,
Against a greater glory. Love to him
Is as a golden net to snare his feet,
And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids,
Nor make one mother, but would rather see
Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die
Ashen as winter woods, nor break again
In all the foaming blossom of the spring,
Whitening every field. He never knew
The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense
Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world
In an immortal glory, while God builds
Life beyond us, creating out of clay
The world's imperishable dream, the hope,
The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight
Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit;
I only know that in the looms of time
God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro.
I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind;
I have seen his splendour shine among the swords,
Soften the eyes of women, light and smile
On a child's lips; and know his presence there
Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick
The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright
Beautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope,
Who hath made love a light, and life a song,
In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown
The fields of heaven thick with golden fires,
As men sow corn: and forges in this flame,
Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul
As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue,
How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise
Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring,
Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds,
And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse,
Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself
Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.
The sea is darkened now; and I can hear
The long moan of the waves upon the shore.
Some fret is on me! I would go again
Over the gray fields of the restless sea,
Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray.
Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there
To wash about among the changing tides
Under the changing moon? I would not rest
Within a little earth. As Sigurd went,
Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift
Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink
Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks
And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die,
For the old glory fades out of the world
And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go
Now, for this death is but another sea
To venture on; a strong man will win through
And cast up somewhere on another shore
With his old lust for fighting. All of life
I have seen, and many cities of proud kings,
And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame,
Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine
To love a little while on drowsy nights,
When a low, yellow moon lights up a land
Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go,
Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me!
Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face
Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears:
We have grown close together. Weep no more;
Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes;
Death will be dark without it.
LES HEURES ISOLÉES
FOR E.F.
Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.
THE POOL
My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass
Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled
Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold
Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass,
And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass
Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold
Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold:
So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas!
It holds but visions, unsubstantial things.
Transient, momentary; and the feet
Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole.
Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings
That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet
With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
NOON
TO ANITA FOCKE
Charmed into silence lay
The forest, dimly lit;
No wind that summer day
Moved the least leaf of it;
No choric branches stirred
Its calm profound and deep,
Nor voice of any bird,
But silence dreamed like sleep.
Like dew upon the grass
It fell upon my soul,
Loosed it to soar, and pass
Beyond the stars' control.
Vague memories it woke,
Shapes far too frail for touch;
And then the silence broke,
Lest I should learn too much.
BEAUTY'S WISDOM
As light, as fragrance from her face,
A beauty is distilled
More deep and tranquil than Youth's grace,
The love that is fulfilled.
Nor transient this: the touch of years
But strengthens it with peace;
She reaps the moments as the ears
Are reaped, of Earth's increase.
THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
I build of fair and fleeting things
A little home for Love,
In thickets where the linnet sings;
My house is roofed above
With aspen leaves, that never cease
Their whispering, though winds have peace.
And when the Autumn comes, the roof
Is shed in golden showers;
So sing I this for thy behoof,
Love passes with the flowers:
Ruined our house with wind and rain
Till Spring shall build it up again.
But though old age may dim our fire,
This first close kiss will keep
Sacred for us our old desire;
And though the heavens weep,
Its fragile memory will be
All of our life for thee and me.
BUTTERFLIES
Fluttering, haphazard things,
Delicate as flowers ye fly,
Wandering on airy wings,
Creatures of a tranquil sky,
Born for one brief, golden day,
Dying ere the roses die.
Butterfly of colours gay
Flutter in capricious flight,
Hover in thy wanton play,
Gather honey of delight!
Not such harvest as the bee
Carries to his hive at night.
Night shall keep no place for thee,
Death at dusk shall mock thy wings,
So our poor souls seem to me
Fluttering, haphazard things.